


Lightning in the Blood

by vinvy



Category: Fall Out Boy, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ambiguous Characters, Ambiguous Relationships, Archetypes, BRBB, Bandom - Freeform, Bandom Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2012, F/F, F/M, M/M, cabaret, the fic that almost wasn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinvy/pseuds/vinvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Cabaret is a playground for souls- let them do their battles elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightning in the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This was my very first Bandom Reverse Big Bang and it is the BRBB that almost wasn't! I'm thrilled to have finished it and I hope y'all enjoy it. Here is the absolutely perfect mix that inspired it: http://pseudopatient.livejournal.com/11578.html

 

  


The Cabaret is a playground for souls. Let them do their battles elsewhere.

  
            ~~

  
            The house lights fall on the Band at just the right angle. It gives them an ethereal glow and halos of dust.

 

The Bartender takes the last chair down off of the last table- there might be a dozen of them in the room, strategically placed around the edges of a small dance floor. The Cabaret is small enough that it develops a haze quickly once more than one patron starts smoking. Once upon a time the walls might have been covered in red velvet but now it’s a stained burgundy, more the color of dried blood in some places, still as soft as the day it was put up.

 

“You ready to open up?” The Bouncer, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, calls from the door. The tall blond man isn’t as imposing as the last guy to hold the position but he’s made of far more muscle. He’s the perfect door hound.

 

The Bartender slides a hand over his hair, making sure it’s still slicked back and perfect, and slips off his coat, stashing it under the bar. “I was born ready.”

 

The Bouncer cracks his knuckles, says, “Whatever you say, shorty.”

 

The Bartender checks his watch- he has thirty seconds before he’s on the clock. Perfect. He grabs a bottle of McCallan. With nimble hands he pours two practice shots for fortification and the stage is set.

  
            ~~

 

Without fail, the Artist and the Writer are the first two patrons to wander in.

 

With a notebook under his arm and a pen in his breast pocket, the Writer orders a Guinness and puts down roots in the far corner to the right of the bar so he can watch the room. The implication is that he likes to watch people come and go “for research”. More than a few people who’ve come in have asked if he’s some kind of pervert because the way he _watches everything_ makes them nervous. The Writer has eyes that could strip paint and give a rock blisters. All he wants to do is see the truth of people- the problem is that the people who come to the Cabaret come so that they can lie. The Bartender doesn’t tell him that, though- telling would be unkind.

 

The Writer doesn’t talk to the Bartender much most nights. Some folks just need to be alone in a crowd. It’s as natural as dancing and the Bartender accepts this.

 

The Artist. Now this guy is one the Bartender knows well without knowing much about him at all. The Artist’s suit jacket is always clean but the shirt underneath is always stained- he knows because the jacket comes off by eleven each night. He wears cheap shirts so that somehow the mess his paintings leave on them is excused. He’s a chatty drunk- also a practiced drunk, which makes him easier to understand when he gets going about the seasons and the fall of a certain shadow and how it reminds him of that one time when he was a kid and his brother-

 

The heels of the Artist’s hands have charcoal on them tonight. He’s in an introspective mood, from the way he’s picking at his cuticles. The Bartender is disappointed and he pours the Artist his first drink. He always pays his tab before he leaves for the night and so the Bartender respects his desire to be solitary. As far as he can tell the Artist isn’t looking for anything profound like the Writer is- just the bottom of a bottle. It’s a fair trade.

  
              ~~

 

Two hours into the night- when the Band has just settled in for the long haul with some melancholy number about fall leaves and old flames- she comes in looking drawn and in need of something that just can’t be found in the shops these days. The Artist pries his eyes away from where the Bartender is pouring him another whiskey so he can watch her sit down at the far end of the bar, taking the stool closest to the door. She won’t stay there long- both the Artist and the Bartender are thinking it. They’re here every night and they know her type- she’s either gonna leave after a sip of something fruity and she figures out this isn’t the adventure she’d thought, or she’s gonna stick around for the night, not here for a good time at all.

 

The Artist thanks the Bartender with a nod, his black hair trying to escape its greased-back position and failing. He lights another cigarette and inhales deeply, waiting.

 

She drums the fingers of her left hand on the bar, anxious and unaware of how rude she’s being. The Bartender decides he isn’t going to spit in her drink, besides, there’s a wedding ring on the woman’s finger, gold with diamonds that trap the dim light. She comes from Money. Maybe even Society. He’d best treat her right.

 

He spends a minute shining a glass before sauntering over- he figures she’s stewed enough- and she speaks before he can even lean against the polished surface of the bar.

 

“Gin and tonic. _Please_.” She tags on the last as a hasty afterthought. This close her eyes are candy apple red to match her lips and her bob is a bird’s nest under her prim little hat. She’s been crying.

 

The Bartender smiles. “Right away.” He can do business like this- he knows her type. She’ll be in the bucket within the hour, sharing her life story, possibly crying some more, possibly shouting. If she shouts he’ll have to call the Bouncer to escort her out. It’s hard enough to run this establishment legally without rabble-rousers.

~~

 

The Housewife gives a wan smile to her gin and tonic. The Bartender’s a cutie with a big smile, even if he is a little condescending. She knows she doesn’t fit in- again she looks at the Bartender for that confirmation. The pictures tattooed all over his arms _should_ make this an unpleasant place to be. But _he’s_ really a refreshing sight after being stuck looking at her husband’s bullish mug every night after seven PM, cheeks and nose pink with blood vessels burst from too much liquor over the years.

 

She scoffs. _Hypocrite_. That’s what she is, a hypocrite staring down the Shadow of Death.

 

“Hey, what’s your name?” It’s that fellow with the greased hair, the one who looks too friendly with the Bartender. He’s made his way down the bar to sit on seat away from the Housewife. He doesn’t smell dirty- he just looks it. It’s a sharp smell that comes from him, though- not like soap but like chemicals that she doesn’t know the name of. “What’s your name?” He repeats and she notices that she didn’t answer him the first time.

 

“Um...” the Housewife waits a beat too long to be able to lie believably leaving her stuck with honesty for better or worse, “My name is Jamia.”

 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jamia,” he says, offering a hand- the liquor is too strong in his breath, even at this respectable distance, and it makes her flinch. She shakes his hand anyway. “My name’s Gerard,” he adds with all the vocal coolness of a man who’s never touched a drink in his life. He holds his liquor very well, then.

 

“I’m charmed, Gerard.”

 

“What brings you here?” He leans forward his elbows on the bar, not looking too closely at Shauna and not avoiding her eye either.

 

“I- I needed a drink,” she says simply. It is so strange to be spoken to like an equal, especially by a man she doesn’t know from Adam.

 

The Band behind them winds down into a ballad. They sound like they’re playing a million miles away.

 

The Artist laughs a little, “Yeah, I know the feeling. Say, if it isn’t prying too much, why’d you need a drink?”

 

“I’ve got terminal cancer,” she snaps. Who’s he to be asking her that? He should be asking himself why he’s drinking. She draws back in on herself, looking at her hands and the French manicure that’s starting to chip but that she hasn’t cared enough to get touched up.

 

Amazingly, the Artist isn’t offended. The Housewife chances a glance and he’s stuck looking at her, his mouth is open slightly and his eyes- it isn’t pity that she sees. Something deeper. He understands death beyond the usual “Oh that’s horrid you poor thing I’m sorry please go away because it’s probably catching” message she got from the eyes of friends at luncheon. This fellow looks like death has laid Her cool and fair fingers into some place close to him.

 

_ Just under his right collar bone, and on the inside, _ the Housewife thinks, _not in his heart but close enough to do_ this _to him, to make him silent at Her name._

 

The second passes faster than she can follow the thought and wonder who he loved so much that their death would make him look like that at the mention of a stranger’s impending demise. The Artist bites his lip and looks away, takes another drink.

 

“The doctor told me that I have a month or two left,” she speaks more softly this time. “I’m sorry I snapped at you-”

 

“- It’s okay. I shouldn’t have pried like that. Don’t apologize- you’ve got every right to be angry-”

 

A startled sound leaves her mouth and it makes her jump. She realizes it’s a laugh- a real laugh with no armor or sarcasm in it- and that makes her laugh even harder. There’s enough hysteria, though, to force her to breathe and calm down so she doesn’t start bawling before she gets a second drink in her. “You don’t know the half of it sugar.”

 

Her glass is empty. The Artist’s is, too.

 

“Want another?”

 

The way he asks leaves it okay for her to turn down the offer and that’s why she says, a little giddy, “You bet your sweet ass, boy.”

 

The Artist waves a hand at the Bartender, “Gin and tonic for the lady- it’s story time!”

~~

 

Sipping his second Guinness, the Writer focuses in on a couple. They’re sitting close to the stage. They want more music than conversation. They’re probably at the end of the “honeymoon” phase that he’s only read about. Comfortable in their own skin and in each other’s.

 

His free hand takes messy notes in shorthand. There’s poetry on the surface of their interaction, silent because they’re so close to the music, holding hands and playing with the different ways they can lace their fingers, finding new facets to fall in love with, calluses and lines, ridges of fingertips and tender skin between fingers.

 

The edges of his awareness register the vaudeville look of the Band and the acting that verges on scandalous.

 

The Writer loosens his tie and leans forward a little farther.

~~

 

_ She  _ steps in before the Housewife can start her tale of woe. She’s dressed in honey and the scent of red precedes her. Gold and cinnamon. She’s sexiest incarnation of Death any of the patrons of the Cabaret have ever seen and the Bartender has her martini waiting for her.

 

“In your shirtsleeves already,” she comments, “with so much of your life on your arms like that you may as well be nude.”

 

The Bartender blushes. (This floors the Artist.)

 

The Housewife sits and stares at this bright new woman with lipstick that is as red as her own. On _her_ , though, it isn’t candied-apple but more alive and bright as flowing blood.

 

The woman doesn’t wait for the tattooed man behind the bar to reply- she just glides away. Sipping from the delicate glass she makes her way to the table in the back corner. The man there is very obviously staring at the dance floor. There are sleepless bruises under his eyes that somehow get deeper when the woman sits down across from him. It seems that he doesn’t appreciate this addition to his line of sight and the Housewife is amazed- who _wouldn’t_ like looking at a lady like that?

 

“Who is she?” The Housewife clutches her own glass, unaware that some of the bronze liquid spills over the edge to dampen and stain her glove.

 

“A Conwoman,” the Bartender says simply.

 

_ Does he respect or reproach her? _

 

“A Conwoman,” the Artist parrots. The affection in his voice almost too soft to be audible.

 

The Housewife hears it clearly, though, because her hearing has been sharpened against the stone of dinner parties and gossip for the sake of speaking with prizes of shocked laughter for whoever brings the juiciest cut to the table.

 

The Bartender doesn’t need to hear it. He knows the affection is there- he’s always known.

~~

 

“Oh, Pete, you do realize that your staring puts them off, don’t you?” The Conwoman sits straight in her chair, her hands resting in her lap. If she were to put them on the table they would be close enough to touch the worn cover of the Writer’s notebook.

 

“They’ll never _not_ be “put off” by me,” he replies, bitter and jaded. “Why are _you_ here?”

 

“Yes, but I imagine it isn’t good for business. If word gets around about the queer little fellow with the pen who sits in a corner all alone, looking at people like they’re pawns or worse, insects, folks aren’t going to be as willing to drop in here anymore. It could put Frank out of a job or-”

 

“Would you rather I left,” he snaps, “or perhaps jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and save the world the trouble of merely being _looked_ at?”

 

“No, never that,” she backtracks fast enough that she drops her composure and holds her eyes wide. This is not a night for their old banter and casual cruelty. She has made a mistake. “Never that,” she pleads, soft.

 

“Then what would you have me do?” The demand sits on the table between them. The Writer finally looks away from that couple across the room and meets the Conwoman’s steady eye. “We can’t all flee to Venice when our old tricks lose their charm.”

 

She doesn’t know what to say to that. “So,” she hesitates, “then money isn’t the-”

 

“I am rolling in money, woman! My finances aren’t the damned problem! If I were poor that still wouldn’t be the problem. ” The Writer pulls at his hair and throws himself back in his seat, stares at the ceiling. He is quiet for a long minute. 

 

“No answers up there, either,” he mutters, closing his eyes, “no words, no reason. This is pointless.”

 

The Band is between sets and the silence lingering under the conversation is a strait-jacket. The Conwoman will not let it get any tighter. “Is there nothing I can do?” There is a touch of fear in her whisper. She’d thought this had all been solved years ago. She’d been wrong.

 

“No,” he says, looking forward again. “No. This is normal. It. It passes. It always passes. Then I meet my deadlines, my agent and I get paid, another novel hits the shelves and my family is in food and new trinkets for months to come.”

 

“Oh, Pete.” She takes his hand where it rests on top of the notebook. “It that all this is to you anymore? A means to an end?”

 

The inner conflict and just how often it plays itself out shows in the lines of The Writer’s forehead. She doesn’t remember them being there in years past. A thought settles and the lines pan out. He squeezes her hand, reassuring.

 

“Yes, right now it is and when it’s done it will turn into that. Those are just the covers, though, as for the middle?  The middle is _life_. It’s shadows and pulled teeth and fresh snow and loose electricity. When I’m writing it’s more, so much more, than a means to an end. This will pass.” He says the last three words like a prayer. A mantra that he believes in more than flowers believe in sunrises.

 

The Conwoman feels her shoulders relax a small measure. The Writer is convinced of his own ability to soldier on and revel in another day regardless of quality. That is enough for her. She smiles at her old friend for the first time this evening. “Tell me why that couple is so fascinating to you. I don’t see it at all.”

 

His answering smile is too big for his face, and maniacal, too. She’s glad to see that hasn’t changed and she hopes it never does.

~~

 

The Artist doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash at ordering for the Housewife when she graduates to ginger ale. He then borrows a pencil from the Bartender and starts to scribble away at the backside of a pilfered bottle label. He keeps his back to the smoky room and the Housewife faces it bravely, not thinking about much at all.

 

The wake after her life story is a silent one with no mourners. It’s a comfortable silence that clicks along to the swinging tune the Band’s got going on to rev things up after their short break. The dance partners are few but that doesn’t keep them from making the most of it. They whirl and laugh like it’s a friendly and televised competition to see who can have the most fun.

 

The Bartender has left his post to check on the tables around the outside of the room and to fill orders for those too lazy (drunk) or too busy dancing to make their way to the bar. The Housewife wonders about the insanity of that. The Cabaret is hopping with life in the high moon- he could be robbed blind with no one at the bar like this!

 

No one spares the empty space behind the bar a glance, though. No one but her, that is, the ever-attentive wife. She twists her wedding ring, idly considering how much it might get her at a pawn shop, if that would be enough to head West ... and the idea that this place is a one-man operation is unbelievable. She straightens her smart green jacket and smiles as the Bartender returns to pour her yet more ginger ale. This is good service.

 

Impending sobriety is giving her a headache but she won’t let herself be tempted to join the Artist for another gin. She’d sooner drink kerosene and eat lit matches. She knows better than he. She knows the dust of this place tastes of lemongrass and the future and unlike the Artist she knows she wants to see it in its terrifying glory.

 

She’s got no reason in the world to believe that this place is anything other than it is: a hole in the wall Cabaret with the best band she’s heard in a decade, more patrons than the fire code allows for, and magical, headache-curing ginger ale, all run by a single tattooed young man whose grin is as infectious as the Spanish flu. To make things more absurd, the Bartender isn’t an inch over five and a half feet if the Housewife has been alive for a day. It’s unbelievable that he could do it all alone. (And the way she sees it, the silent man at the door doesn’t count.) It’s almost like- and she hesitates to think it because she is a woman above childish fancy- this place has a twinge of magic to it.

 

“Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” the Bartender says in the tune of the Band’s active song.

 

She’s got the good sense to be startled because she knows that none of those thoughts were said out loud- but then, the Bartender isn’t even looking at her. He’s focused his clean hands on the task of rolling himself a cigarette and is turned towards the corner where the Conwoman has been chatting up the fellow with the strange eyes for the last half hour.   
  
           _Voices just have a way of carrying in rooms like this,_ the Housewife supposes _, that’s all._

~~

 

The Devil drops in once every six weeks. He puts the Writer in a state that drops far beyond the man’s average melancholia. Not even the Conwoman’s presence can bring the Writer out of it when the Devil is involved.

 

The Writer can smell the Devil’s cologne the second he steps into the Cabaret and it makes him skittish. It’s nothing he knows how to control- he can only obey it. The chant of “out, out, out” scribbling over his old mantra of “this, too, shall pass” with images of horror that Frankenstein and his monster would balk at. The Writer can sense the evil in him and it makes his every molecule want to flee.

 

“Quit being melodramatic,” the Conwoman smiles, “your life is not a novel, Pete.”

 

The Writer has his reasons for this melodrama. The Devil- and that will be his name from last summer into forever- is worse than the Conwoman could ever dream herself to be. He’s fluid in his movements and unassuming. The oil in his hair is slight enough to fool- trick the unsuspecting into thinking him stylish. But it’s slick enough to let him slip through prison bars. He’s every stick-like ghoul designed to scare little boys into obedience- only dressed up in pin stripes and spats instead of horror rags. No smile ever graces his mouth in public.

 

“You’re jealous. He went off and got his head back on straight, found himself a pretty little wife, and now you’re jealous,” the Conwoman insists. (Clearly, she does not understand.) “You won’t see sense about this, will you?”

 

“Oh, I see sense. You’re the irrational one, my dear viper. That young man’s sinews and marrow are nothing but bad blood.”

 

The Conwoman rolls her heavily-lined eyes and steals the last of the Writer’s beer.

~~

 

“Speak of the devil,” the Artist crows, stopping in the middle of a story about carving pumpkins as a child. Apparently his little brother has made a habit of mutilating them so that instead of an eerie grimace they sported chipper, gaping holes.

 

“I really don’t see the resemblance,” the Bartender remarks. The Housewife wonders if he means resemblance to the Artist or to Lucifer.

 

The man they’re speaking at- and he has yet to so much as acknowledge any of them- is slimmer than the Artist in the way of lanky, his hair far lighter, and his face more closed. His pressed shirt is spotless. The same goes for his suit. He might be a banker or a lawyer.

 

“Jamia, this is my brother, Mikey,” the Artist gestures between the two, “Mikey, this is my friend Jamia.”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” the Housewife smiles on cue, extending her manicured hand, “I’ve heard great things about your prodigal talent for carving gourds.”

 

The Devil’s lips twitch into a bit of a smile. “I prefer the abstract, which for some reason Gerard fails to appreciate.”

 

They shake hands, his long fingers warm around the Housewife’s hand. It’s unnerving that he’s so warm, with January howling outside and no mittens in sight.

 

The Housewife would love to make conversation with this new gentleman- he looks exciting in the harmless way of bored married men and the gin is making her reckless. He could be fun to flirt with. Those glasses of his make him seem like he wouldn’t quite know what to do with a tipsy socialite with a death sentence. She shakes her head at herself- she doesn’t want to fool around with him. She wants to fill the hole in her heart before it stops beating.

 

There is no chance for flirting, though, because a slender set of heels saunters up beside her, topped with a gold sheen-ed dress.

~~

 

The Conwoman approaches the Housewife without sparing the Devil or the Bartender a second glance. The room is muggy with too many bodies- but the profit is so good! - And heavy with smoky perfume. The music swings down into her bones.

 

"Do you dance?" She tucks a stray black curl behind her ear and waits patiently while the Housewife's mouth opens and shuts at the proposition.

 

"You don't even know me."

 

"Lindsey," she replies, extending her hand, "You're Jamia. I heard the Bartender say your name."

 

She doesn't speak.

 

"Dance with me," the Conwoman says again, one part offer, two parts challenge.

 

The Housewife is still at a loss. She glances at the dance floor doubtfully- her toe is already tapping to the beat. She wouldn't mind a dance, even if the only thing she can manage is a tipsy waltz. "You're a woman," she manages at last.

 

"Yes, and so are you. Let's dance."

 

"But what about-" she casts a look at the rest of the Cabaret's patrons, suggesting what she doesn't feel brave enough to say in the wake of the gin.

 

The Conwoman rolls her eyes. "Dance with me. I know how to lead."

 

She still says nothing, unsure.

 

"You have problems and I can help you with them, so let me take you for a spin."

 

That gets her interested despite her timidity. "You can't fix cancer."

 

"No, but I don't intend to fix the cancer." Her mouth curls with just a hint of mischief. "You only have a couple months to live, right? Why not have some fun before your brain turns to soup?"

 

The Housewife winces because no one has been blunt about her illness, no one has been honest. They love so much to dance around the truth and minimize what is going to be her demise. She isn't an idiot, despite what her husband would like to pretend. She knows what's going to happen to her- she'll have more headaches and then the memory loss will begin until she doesn't know her own name or how to eat or sit up or breathe. The rampaging cells in her head will kill her.

 

She takes the Conwoman’s hand and lets herself be led onto the floor. There are a few unexpected wolf whistles but no distinction for who they're for. It makes the Housewife blush anyway.

 

"Hey, Pipes," Lindsey shouts at the singer- somehow she is heard- "Gimme a good ballad, will ya? Something waltz-y!"

 

"I got just the thing," he replies with a click of his tongue and a wink. Pipes- _That cannot possibly be his real name,_ the Housewife thinks- is slick with his face painted like a vaudeville actor. The novelty is distracting but she has no choice to look away because the Conwoman’s hand is at her waist, the other hand reaching for the Housewife’s left, and the waltz begins, with a sway to it that's got more jazz than anything the former debutant was familiar with.

 

The piano is lazy and the bass pressing, the steady 1- 2- 3 of the waltz still present but not nearly as noticeable as she was used to. The Conwoman wasn't lying- she'd been taught to lead, with straight back and confident steps.

 

“So, I hear you have a problem with a guy,” she smiles, mischievous.

 

The Housewife startles. She does not want to think about _him_ right now.

 

The Conwoman nods, appraising. “Is it like that, then?”

 

“Like what?” She tries to stop but the Conwoman pulls her into another turn, keeping time to the song.

 

“Do you know what this song is called? It’s called “Ballad of Lizzie Borden”. You don’t have to spend the end of your life with that man.”

 

The Housewife scoffs.

 

“No, really, you don’t. I know some folks who can help you out, get you a new name. He’ll never know where you went.”

 

In college, between Home Economics and Cooking, the Housewife had had an English class. She’d learned a Latin phrase: _deus ex machina_. It meant literally “God out of the machine”. In context it meant when something popped up out of nowhere to get characters out of a jam or save the world. It was a flimsy device and she’d always thought it was stupid, too- the real world didn’t work like that. Things only happened if you worked for them to and some things you just didn’t ever change because you’d signed up for them. 

 

She is having a hard time processing _the deus ex machina_ that has been dropped into her lap as she dances with a suspicious woman wearing a loud dress in a hole of a Cabaret. “Why?”

 

“I hate to see my fellow woman suffering, especially when she hasn’t got long left to suffer.”

 

The song winds to an end and a new one picks up. The Housewife and the Conwoman don’t move from where they ended up, by the bar.

 

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” the Conwoman squeezes the Housewife’s hand, the sincerity of the gesture almost painful in its suddenness. “The Bartender’s gonna give you a set of keys when you leave- they go to that baby blue Corvette out front. If you decide you need a break from life as a punching bag go ahead and take them.”

 

“You are not giving me a car.”

 

“No, I’m not giving you _a_ car. I’m giving you _my_ car- I didn’t steal it. It doesn’t work that way. I don’t need it now, anyway. There’s a gentleman staying at the Carlton who’s going to be getting me a new one here pretty soon. You’ll find a few hundred bucks in the glove box and an address for the boy who can get you a shiny new name and apartment.” She kisses the Housewife on the cheek, like a sister or best friend, and strides out of the Cabaret. 

 

The Housewife thinks she sees the Conwoman pinch the Bouncer’s rear as she passes him. She wouldn’t be shocked if that were the case.

~~

 

The Bartender smirks as he watches the Housewife. She leaves the money to cover her tab under her glass and waves shyly at the Artist, bidding him a farewell that isn't as fond as it looks. She’s glad to be out of there- the Conwoman must have said something. He's a few feet away but he slides the keys down the bar and they stop right at her wrist. He mimes tipping his hat to her.

 

"Take a nap in the back seat first, doll," he says.

 

"Don't call me doll, pretty boy," she teases back and she's gone.

 

The Artist contemplates his whiskey. "She gonna be alright?"

 

"She's got cancer, Gerard, she's going to die."

 

"Yeah, but is she going to be _alright_?" He looks at the Bartender hard, staring down the shorter man.

 

"You don't know her."

 

"So?"

 

The Bartender appraises the Artist quietly. He polishes the bar. The Artist’s cigarette burns unchecked. Eventually- after the Artist's green eyes have burned into him for several minutes and the Bartender stacked clean glasses and the Band broke down for the night- he gives a slight nod. "Yeah. She's gonna be alright... I don't know so much about you, though." He casts a glance, worried and cryptic, over the Artist’s shoulder. 

 

The Devil who has returned from the back room. "It's about time for you to head home," he says, setting a hand on the Artist's shoulder and handing him his overcoat. 

 

The Artist, they both know, is farther along than he looks sitting down. Getting him upright and mobile will be a challenge. His feet tangle in each other and the floor taunts him. Getting him home and to sleep will be even worse. When he drinks he does not sleep. He has no rest from that mind of his that never shuts off anyway. He stares at the pretty ceiling and talks to it- the Devil has a long night to look forward to.

 

The Devil sighs and supports his brother with one arm. He has a silent exchange with the Bartender:

 

** You do this to him. **

 

_ He does it to himself. _

 

** You're a _Bartender_. **

 

_ He's the paying customer. _

 

** I can't help him. **

 

_ No, you can't. He has to do it himself. _

~~

 

The Writer likes to wander through the mornings that follow his nights in the Cabaret, especially when it's rainy. It makes him mournful. It's masochistic but he can hardly help himself any more. At least he feels _something_.

 

The streets are closing down or opening up- it depends on the block at this wee hour of the morning- and all the people he passes are too tired to look past their coffee cups or their shoes. The wind rustles the Writer's hair. He turns up his collar against it and pulls his shoulders towards his ears for protection.

 

At home he knows his wife and son are in bed, tucked up warm, possibly together, possibly with the radio on. They keep each other company when he can't handle staying inside. They are great without him- they used to wait up. It was one thing when his wife would be sitting on the couch, leafing through one of his manuscripts at 3 AM, but to have their son curled up with his head on her thigh, Bearington the Bear in his tiny arms, at that same hour because he didn't want to miss Daddy coming home?

 

The worst part is that he can't help it. The penthouse apartment makes his skin itch. The wallpaper is too dense with complementary blues and greens. Shadows walk behind its vines. He can't think. He can't stay there at night- not sleeping and itching and keeping his wife awake with his pacing or frantic scribbling on the wood of the nightstand.

 

Below him- he realizes he's standing on the bridge- the river tumbles swiftly thanks to the rain.

 

"What are you thinking about, Pete? The next Great American Novel?"

 

The Writer jumps, clinging to the side railing for support. The Bartender is standing beside him, clearly heading home himself. He lives on this side of town, near the steel mill where his dad worked. The Writer heard him mention it once to the Artist. No surprise there.

 

"Um. Yeah, I guess so."

 

"Liar," the Bartender accuses kindly. He leans back against the rail. "Go home, Peter. Your kid misses you. Your wife needs a hug."

 

"No," he says, honest in reflex, not because he wants to be. The despair is just seeping out of him. "They don't-"

 

The Bartender grabs him around the shoulders- they're close in height, which is to say, short- and starts leading him off the bridge, to steady ground beside the street where cars are slowly coming to life. He has a headache starting. Suddenly, the Writer needs to sleep in his own bed more than he's ever needed anything in his life. The Bartender points him up the hill and gives him a gentle push, "It's a long walk but you'll be better off there than out here. Give the Missus my best. I don't wanna see you for at least a week, Pete, _capiche_?"

 

The Writer laughs nervously and it turns into a yawn. "Yeah, okay. See you."

 

The Bartender nods and tucks his hands into his pockets and watches the Writer vanish over the hill.

~~

 

The Housewife wakes up around noon. Her mouth tastes like old nylons.

 

"Oh, God," she groans. Her head doesn't hurt too terribly- that is not the problem at all.

 

Last night. She'd gotten into a car given to her by a woman she didn't know from Eve. She'd driven said car far enough to be just outside of town where she wouldn't be noticed, and gone to sleep because, really, she had been in no shape to drive. It's a miracle she wasn't pulled over. Her husband is going to be furious.

 

Her heart clenches. Her breath comes too short. Tears prick at her eyes. He is going to kill her for this. She didn't go home last night.

 

She didn't go home last night.

 

For the first time ever.

 

The Housewife stares at her own eyes in the rearview mirror. She'd always been told they were sweet, which is a nice way of saying "plain" where she grew up. Brown and plain and unassuming. Unquestioning. She is losing her mind, she must be because now there's something in them, something that looks like gold or honey or perhaps both.

 

A smile picks up the corners of her mouth. She reaches to open the glove box with a shaking hand. It pops open with a springy sound. As promised there's a large wad of money and a folded piece of paper. She unfolds it and reads the name and address. She needs to get to the big city, it seems, and find a phonebook and a map before she can make any progress. The drive will probably be a few days at least.

 

The money in her lap is enough to pay for the rock on her ring finger and a matching necklace. It looks like it is, anyway.

 

The money might be stolen.

 

It might have once belonged to nuns or someone equally harmless and kind.

 

_ They did call her a Conwoman after all. _

 

The money might also have once lined the pocket of a politician. Some kind of man who wouldn't help feed the homeless because they were freeloaders in his eyes.

 

The Housewife has no way of knowing.

 

The money stares back up at her, heavy and very green.

 

She takes a deep breath and drops her wedding ring into the ashtray then puts the money and address back into the glove box.

 

She turns on the radio, finds something loud and like the jazz from the Cabaret, aching head be damned.

 

She puts the car in drive and heads for the interstate.

  


  


-                      _Fin_

 


End file.
